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“It’s my fault.”
Those are the first words Derek says. He’s huddled in the corner of Stiles’ bathroom, a large pale yellow towel incongruously wrapped around his shoulders. Stiles is tugging at Derek’s boots, setting them aside before pulling his sodden socks off. He can’t stop his brain from focusing on the delicate bones in Derek’s feet, and the fact that he’s not sure he’s ever even seen Derek’s feet before. The stillness radiating from Derek isn’t new, but it’s disturbing Stiles. Even now that they’ve reached a level of comfort with each other that Stiles never thought they’d have, Derek shouldn’t just be sitting there as Stiles undresses him. There should be something more there—Derek snarking at him, rolling his eyes at him—not this blank stare that doesn’t seem to be registering anything.
Stiles clears his throat as he stands up, unable to stop himself from resting a hand gently on Derek’s head. “It’s not your fault.” Tugging the towel off Derek’s shoulders, he moves Derek’s heavy arms until he can get his hands on Derek’s shirt and pull it off him. Derek’s not even shivering, Stiles doesn’t know if werewolves can get hypothermia and he kind of hates that. Hates how little he really knows about them. Roughly rubbing the towel across Derek’s head and down his shoulders, Stiles sighs. “Your pants need to come off, Derek. Can you stand up?”
It’s really freaking him out that Derek stands up without protesting. He doesn’t make a move to take his pants off himself so Stiles bites his lip, flips the toilet seat lid down and perches on it, his hands on Derek’s hips as he urges him to turn around. Derek’s pants are stiff, soaking wet, and it takes Stiles what seems like forever just to get them down Derek’s thighs. Somehow Derek gathers up the wherewithal to to lean one hand on the bathroom counter so that Stiles can tug the pants completely off. His breathing is harsh, like he’s holding back tears and the ache in Stiles’ chest gets a little bigger as the sound echoes in the room.
“Your, uh, your boxers are wet.” Derek looks at him, his eyes unfocused. “Do you...” Stiles makes a gesture, and even he’s not sure what it means, but something must get through to Derek because he shakes his head. “Okay. There are sweatpants on the hook and I’m—I’m going to be outside the door.” Derek nods and, well, Stiles will take that because at least he’s communicating. Closing the bathroom door behind him, Stiles steps to the side, leaning against the wall. It’s so quiet in the house that he can hear Derek moving in the bathroom, when he knocks into the counter as he turns around to grab the sweatpants. Stiles can hear the water running in the sink and tries not to think about the fact that Derek is washing blood off his hands.
There’s a quiet “done,” through the door and Stiles takes a deep breath before stepping back inside.
What he sees breaks his heart.
Derek’s on the floor, his back leaning against the tub, knees to his chest, the heels of his hands rubbing against his eyes. Stiles quickly joins him on the floor, tentatively pressing their sides together, knees brushing as they sit in silence.
“I meant it,” Stiles says quietly, when he can no longer stand the silence. “It’s not your fault.” Derek’s shaking his head and—Stiles is aware of how much he cannot do—but if he’s going to do anything, he’s going to make sure Derek knows this isn’t his fault.
“It is.” Derek’s face is buried in his hands, and he’s not moving. Stiles glances at Derek, his hair is still damp, trickles of water running down his neck onto his bare shoulders. Everything about him screams vulnerability and Stiles has never seen him like this before. It might be risking his neck, but he reaches over and rests his hand on Derek’s knee. When he squeezes, Derek looks over at him, his face utterly shattered.
Stiles swallows around the lump in his throat, but doesn’t remove his hand. “It’s not. I don’t know what happened, but I know you, and I know you wouldn’t do that. I know you cared about Boyd.” Derek’s eyes stay on him, looking like they’re searching for something, and Stiles doesn’t know what to do; he just looks right back at him, his gaze never wavering. Eventually Derek looks away, like maybe he’s found what he was looking for, and before Stiles realises it, Derek’s hand is a warm weight on top of his. There’s a stillness to the room that Stiles doesn’t want to break but his butt is getting sore from sitting on the tiled floor. “We—my room is a lot comfier than this floor.” He turns his hand over and links his fingers with Derek’s. “Come on.” For some reason Derek listens to him, smoothly standing up and following Stiles out of the bathroom, still clasping Stiles’ hand.
Derek looks to Stiles for direction when they reach his room, and Stiles gestures at the bed with his free hand, not expecting Derek to let go of his hand and lie down on the bed, his face rubbing against Stiles’ pillow. He looks... hopeless, and Stiles is at a loss at how to deal with this. He’s not even sure how he ended up being the one to take care of Derek tonight, but Isaac took Ms. Blake home and told Stiles to take Derek. Isaac said he’d deal with everything else and Stiles couldn’t just leave Derek. Not when he’d seen his hands shaking and how close he’d been to totally breaking down. Stiles has so many questions, but now isn’t the time to do that to Derek. Scott sent him a text telling him he was at the station with Deaton giving statements and, fuck, does Stiles ever not want to think about his dad being in the middle of this.
“You’re wet.”
“Huh?”
“Your sneakers, you—you’re wet.”
Stiles looks down at his feet and, yeah, Derek’s right. He’d been concentrating so much on Derek, he hadn’t realised how soggy his Converse are. “Okay. I’m going to get changed. You—” Stiles cuts himself off as he stares at Derek. “Let me know if you need anything,” he says quietly. “I’ll be back.” He grabs sweatpants and a t shirt from his drawer before ducking back into the bathroom and quickly changing, not wanting to leave Derek along for too long.
When he slips back into the room, Derek’s flipped over, fists clenched by his side as he stares blankly at the ceiling, moisture gathering at the corners of his eyes. “Derek,” he breathes out, slowly walking over and clambering onto the bed. Stiles sits up, his head resting uncomfortably against the shelves behind him, but he’s not ready to lie down next to Derek, doesn’t know if Derek would be willing to let him. “I’m not going to make you talk about it,” he says, noticing how Derek’s body leans against him slightly. “I’m going to sit here and read through my chem textbook and if you want to talk, I’ll listen.” Stiles picks up his textbook from the floor by his bed and opens it, glancing at Derek between pages. He’s flicked through about twenty pages before Derek moves, turning on his side and carefully sliding an arm over Stiles’ lap. Stiles doesn’t make a fuss, sure that if he does, Derek will pull away, and he doesn’t want that to happen. He lets Derek hold onto him and waits.
It’s not long before Derek clears his throat and starts to talk. “They—Kali, the twins—the twins were holding my wrists and Kali. She held him up. Forced him down on my claws. I couldn’t stop them.” His voice is heavy, like it’s hurting him to get the words out and if Stiles thought he hated the alpha pack before, it’s nothing to the fury he feels now. He drops the textbook back on the floor and shuffles down on the bed, trying not to dislodge Derek’s arm.
They’re pressed close and Stiles can feel Derek’s fingers digging into him. He places his hands on Derek’s arm, his shoulder, and squeezes. “It wasn’t your fault, Derek. No way in hell was Boyd’s death your fault. There were three alphas, how were you meant to—” He stops talking when Derek lets out a broken sob, his face hidden in Stiles’ shoulder. “Fuck, Derek.” All Stiles can do is hold him, his hands stroking along Derek’s skin, hoping that it’s soothing him in some way. He hasn’t felt this useless since the night at the station with the Kanima. “It’s not your fault, Derek. They used you like a weapon. You had no choice.”
Derek’s quiet, Stiles can feel his hot breath against his neck and his back is starting to hurt from the position he’s in, so he slips down the bed until he’s fully next to Derek. There’s no reaction from Derek aside from him adjusting himself so he’s still clinging to Stiles. And—that’s fine. Stiles is going to hope his dad is tied up at the station a little longer because he really doesn’t have the first idea of how he would start to explain this. How he’d explain Boyd’s blood being all over the clothes in the bathroom and, shit, he needs to get them out of there, “Derek, I need to get your clothes out of the bathroom. You’re gonna have to let go of me, okay?”
The noise Derek makes when he lets go of Stiles is like a dagger through the chest, and Stiles can’t help himself from brushing a hand through Derek’s hair. Derek’s looking up at him, his mouth a thin line and Stiles nods his head. “I’ll be back—I’ll—I’m going to put them in a trash bag and put them outside. I don’t. They shouldn’t be in here where you can...” Stiles trails off and ducks out of the room, racing down the stairs to grab a trash bag from under the stairs before heading back up.
The only things even vaguely salvageable are Derek’s boots and that’s only if they dry out properly. Stiles can’t even look as he throws the clothes in the bag, they smell of damp and blood and he has to force that to the back of his mind in order to do this. It’s not until he’s tied the bag up and looked at his hands that it hits him—Boyd is dead. He has the blood of his classmate all over his hands and, holy fuck, that is not okay. Stiles can’t tear his eyes away from the blood as he scrubs his hands, washing it down the drain. He can’t—he needs to get Derek’s clothes out of here. Taking a breath, he dries his hands and hurries down the stairs, out the back door where he all but throws the bag under a shrub. His breathing is laboured, his stomach twisting, and he only just makes it upstairs before he’s heaving, vomiting into the toilet, tears prickling at his eyes as he empties his stomach.
Stiles doesn’t even hear Derek come in, doesn’t realise he’s in the bathroom with him until he feels a hand on his back between his shoulderblades.
“Stiles?” Derek’s voice is low. “I heard your heart.”
Sitting up, Stiles wipes his mouth, Derek’s hand slipping away. “Sorry. There was. Boyd’s blood was—” He can’t finish that sentence, and Derek nods at him like he understands, which, of course he does. He had to wash the blood off first. Stiles stays on the floor, stretching his legs out in front of him, the rancid taste of bile in his mouth choking him. When Derek stands up, Stiles’ eyes track him, frowning when Derek reaches down and pulls him up as well. His face is still blank as he grabs Stiles’ toothbrush, smears toothpaste on it and hands it to Stiles. After he’s spit and rinsed, Derek passes him the mouthwash and Stiles can feel his eyes on him as he erases the last of the taste in his mouth.
Derek’s hand is on his shoulder; when Stiles looks up from the sink, their eyes meet and Derek squeezes his shoulder once before his hand drops. It takes Stiles by surprise when Derek tangles their fingers together but he doesn’t say a word as Derek leads them back to the bedroom. Doesn’t say a word when Derek kneels on the bed, his grip on Stiles’ hand not letting up, so that Stiles has no choice but to join him. Somehow they fit together easily, legs tangling as they lay on top of the blankets. Stiles is all too aware of Derek still holding his hand, and he doesn’t want it to stop, doesn’t want to break whatever connection he and Derek are managing to forge tonight. Derek’s face is closer to his than it ever has been before, they’re sharing a pillow and Stiles can feel Derek’s breath on his face. If his hand was free, Stiles knows he wouldn’t be able to resist dragging his fingers over Derek’s stubble. Instead he just stares, trying to get it through to Derek that he’s not a bad person, that Boyd’s death wasn’t his fault.
He’s got no idea if he’s succeeding. Derek’s face is so closed off, in a way that Stiles hasn’t seen for months, that he can’t get a read on him. Derek squeezes Stiles’ hand before letting go, bringing a hand up to cup Stiles’ face and—fuck—Stiles knows his heart is pounding in his chest, knows that Derek can hear it. There’s a hitch in his breath as Derek’s face gets even closer, and before Stiles can process anything, Derek’s lips are on his. There’s nothing forceful about the kiss—it’s almost chaste—a gentle pressure as Stiles closes his eyes, cataloging the feel of Derek’s slightly chapped lips. Derek’s hand is still cupping his face, fingers gently stroking against Stiles’ skin, and he’s being so fucking tender that Stiles is terrified he’s going to do something to ruin this.
Stubble scrapes across his skin and Stiles sighs, his mouth dropping open slightly. Derek takes the opportunity to open his mouth, his tongue darting out and, oh. Stiles cautiously places his hand on Derek’s bare chest, feeling the beat of Derek’s heart underneath his palm. It’s grounding him, after everything that’s happened today, he needs this. Almost as much as Derek seems to.
When Derek pulls away, he doesn’t go far, his face is still close and Stiles can’t stop staring at his wet lips, can’t help leaning in and kissing him softly, quickly. Derek glances down at where Stiles’ hand is still resting against his chest, and places his hand over Stiles’, his face softening.
“Stay,” Stiles says quietly. “I know you—just tonight.”
“Your dad—”
“Won’t come in. Don’t worry about it.”
There’s a slow nod from Derek and he closes his eyes, the shadows of his eyelashes making the dark circles under his eyes seem even bigger.
“Stop staring,” Derek mutters, pushing at Stiles until he’s on his back, Derek draping an arm over him, his face bumping against Stiles’ shoulder.
And it’s not enough to make him forget about all that’s happened tonight. It’s not enough to make him forget about the sight of Boyd’s body, the loss of someone he considered a friend. Having Derek curled up against him isn’t enough to make Stiles forget the dead look in Derek’s eyes on the drive over. It isn’t enough to make him forget that people he loves are in danger.
Isn’t enough to make him forget that he might not survive this.
But he’s got Derek here, he’s maybe stopped Derek from doing something stupid, and as the world falls apart around him, that’s enough for now.